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Class Jr^£j5 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT . 



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Musings and Pastels 

^By Bert' Finck, author of 
**Webs" and 'Tlays" 





JOHN P. MORTON & COMPANY 

LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY 



C 3 



LIBRARY of OONQSESS 
Two Copies fiecervad 

DEC 12 1904 

Q Copynsrni tntry 

CUSS CL^ XXC. Noi 
COPY 






■r53 \ 



Copyrighted by BERT FINCK 
1904 



MUSINGS AND PASTELS. 



SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

It is not thought that harms our brain, not all 
the worlds of thought; 'tis the weight of self- 
consciousness that stunts our minds and hearts. 
Think of your work, think of your friends, think 
of your dog, if it needs must be ; think of every- 
thing but of yourself, if you would be sane and 
true. 

THE INVARIABLE MEMBER. 

In every church, in every club, or lodge of secret 
order, there is a member who delights in orna- 
menting self, and who opposes every aim that 
does not feed his vanity. His food is flattery, 
which, as too much sweets will surely make dys- 
peptic, upsets the healthy reasoning of his brain. 

THE JUDGMENT HOUR. 

As for the judgment hour — it will be glorious to 
pay our debts, and have debts paid to us; for if 
we owe, by folly and mistake, we are owed, too, 
by trouble. 

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)j]i^U5iTlg5 QTlb J^Qstels 



DISCORD. 

Apologies and explanations; efforts to please, 
and aims to be correct; all insincerity and affecta- 
tion lies to the heart, the maddest lies of all. 

FREEDOM. 

We may be so bound that we can not move one 
step upon this earth, yet at the same time we may 
be meeting with adventures in the worlds of space. 
None but the unpoetic are fettered. 

SHADOWS. 

Shadows of cheated dreams within us stalk 
.across the glitter of our fortunate days. All the 
jeweled ribbons of praise heaped together can not 
pay for a heart's broken ideals. 

THE FIRST LESSON. 

In this world, it is not what we want to do, but 
what we are truly able to do, which makes us 
worthy and successful. This is the first lesson of 
intelligence. It is a hard and disagreeable lesson, 
but after it has once been thoroughly learned and 
digested, all the other lessons which are given to 
US by life become easy and pleasant. 

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)j]^U5ing5 Qnb pQstels 



ORIGINALITY. 

Let us never try to be original, for if we do, we 
will be affected, and affectation is coarse and com- 
monplace. Let us be perfectly natural, and we 
will then be original, since it is natural for every 
one of us to be original. What is often called 
originality, is perversity. 

SOCIABILITY. 

Speak to every one; this is the creed of policy 
and kindness. The sociable rascal is more be- 
loved than the unsociable man of honor. The 
greatest vice in the eyes of the populace is un- 
sociability. 

HOPE. 

A weird hope rustles in the leaves that shade 
feverish exhaustion, along ambition's rocky way 
where sensitiveness stumbles. Inspiration sings to 
the fallen. 

THE SUCCESSFUL. 

It is not he that has gathered the most coin, it 
is not he that has distributed the most coin, who 
is rich and successful; but he who can smile in 
the midst of his trouble, and see good in life, even 
though it has wounded him. 

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iD/^usings QTib J^Qstels 



PURITY. 

Purity is simply a more lyrical word for unself- 
ishness — unselfishness in love, unselfishness in art, 
unselfishness in friendship, unselfishness in truth. 
The selfish are impure, though their morals be 
white as the brow of chastity itself. 

IMMORTALITY. 

Many a man is dead, even though he is not 
buried; many a man is living, with his ashes in 
the tomb. Life is not always life; death is not 
always death — nothing's immortal but sincerity. 

FAILURE. 

No one has failed in life but he that is untrue 
to his ideals. Many, though seated on Fortune's 
throne, feel pangs of utter loss. 

BEAUTY. 

No flower that speaks its mood in subtle color, 
no peak that lifts its powers to the sky, are half so 
pleasing to the gods of beauty as the bearer of 
true honor and true pride. The lofty scorn for 
meanness and oppression, the frown of right on 
smirking masks of wrong, are grander sights to 
eyes of the immortals than are all of nature's 



)n/^U5ing5 Qnb pQstels 



sweet or fearful charms. Great is the sun, with 
its sympathy; great is the star with its prophecy; 
but greatest of all is a word of the heart, outspoken 
fearlessly. 

WISDOM. 

How beautiful is thought, when graced by tender 
sympathy ! but it is harsh and valueless when pity 
is not there. No one is wise who can not pity; 
the heart of wisdom's sympathy. 

IF YOU WERE DEAD. 

If you were dead, your troubles would be ended ; 
your passions stilled, and pains forever gone ; your 
debts would all be paid, for death owes none ; your 
torturing aspirations would be stifled in the grave. 
If you were dead, none would misunderstand you, 
for there could be no doubt, then, as to what you 
really are; all ghosts would cease to stare — ghosts 
of neglected duty — for death relieves us from re- 
sponsibility. If you were dead, you would have 
no more fears of what the future might unfold to 
you; if you were dead, you would have peace, 
sweet peace, but not the faces that are dear to 
you; and therefore life, with all its sharp ills, is 
precious, till those faces fade away. 

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)J]i?u5ing5 QTib pQstels 



THE GHOST. 
(Mingled Whisperings of Affrighted Human Beings.) 

Speak to it, Paul; you are the wisest. 

No, Edward, you — you have more sense than I. 

Oh, no, no, no ! my tongue is very foolish — it 
would surely make a blunder, and bring woe upon 
us all ! 

The Ghost, (aside) If I should speak to them, 
they all would run away; but could I only play 
with them again their game of quarreling, politics, 
or trade, of fashion, sin — O, any of the games that 
make life interesting ! 

SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS, THE JAIL OF SENSE. 
Think not, am I clever? Am I foolish? or dull? 
Am I great? Am I little? Do I dazzle, or bore? 
Am I light? Am I awkward? Deep, shallow, or 
queer? Am I tall? Am I small? Fat, heavy, or 
lean? Am I bold? Am I modest? Fresh, mouldy, 
or green? Do I talk like a poet, a parrot, or clown? 
Think, whatever I am, there are others like me. 
Let this crush my conceit, and weaken my fears. 
My companions are legion in folly or worth, in 
lack of adornment, in power of gifts. For none 
but the angels are alone in this world, and they 
hide their wings for company's sake. Think but 
"I am one with mankind." 



)]]/^U5iTlg5 QTlb f>Q5tel5 



THE LEAVES. 

The leaves are falling thick and fast upon his 
white, uncovered head; they fall, at times, on the 
page of his book, held close to his tired eyes ; and 
his frail hand brushes them away down into the 
stream at his side. Is the hand growing frailer all 
the time, that it moves the leaves with lessening 
haste, until, at last, it does not move, but presses 
one against the page? What thought has the 
lingering contact brought from the depth of sleep 
in the reader's brain? that he should turn his eyes 
away from the book, toward the stream? To see 
the leaves that worried him, meeting each other 
in harmony, as though they have a story to tell of 
why they are floating there. Does the leaf, under- 
neath the thin, pale hand, repeat the words of their 
drifting tales? That it should be raised to the 
tired eyes, and then to the old man's lips. "Can 
you forgive a fool," they ask, "and give him back 
what books took away? the wisdom of simplicity, 
lost by mad search and doubt?" 

The leaves are falling faster still, upon his white, 
uncovered head; they hide from his brightened 
eyes the book, dropped down from his hand to the 
ground. 



)Jlfiusings QTib j^Qstels 



HAPPINESS. 

He looked for happiness in books, but found 
more unrest. He looked for it in nature, but 
found nothing there to soothe. He looked for it 
in social life, but met with glittering vacancy. He 
looked for it in solitude, but maddening visions 
came. 

Then as he sank upon the ground, helpless, ex- 
hausted with despair, invisible arms uplifted him 
to heights above the hills. The atmosphere was 
soft and pure, bright flowery dreams saluted him, 
and music floated on the winds in drifting phantasy. 

"Why, this is happiness!" he cried; "who are 
you, friend, that brings me here, after my hopes 
began to fail, and searches all seemed vain?" 

"Through me alone you enter here," a rich, 
sonorous voice replied. "All search is idle with- 
out me; 'tis but feverish anxiety; and only when 
that fades away, you find me — Independence." 

THE GRAVE. 

Over the hills, a woman comes, with patches of 
blue in a gown of red wool; with a faded shawl 
tied over her head, and a sprig of holly in her rough, 
knotted hand. Down the steep path to the nar- 
row way that leads to a plot of burying-ground, 

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)J)i^U5iTig5 Qnb pastels 



guarded by tragic philosophers— the never- smihng 
pines. Up the three steps with her heavy, coarse 
boots, and a weight in her breast that is heavier 
still ; down the three steps on the other side, and 
a quick walk toward an unmarked grave. A look 
of wild fear cast back on the way shows the face, 
which gives it a hunted soul's; but the look in a 
moment has vanished again, and triumph has 
taken its place. "It is all that I have, but it is 
the all that is living to me, which I give to you, on 
this day of Love that can never die, in spite of 
Crucifixions." She lays the sprig of holly down 
on the green mound, and murmurs again, with a 
laugh and a sob, "As though words of bondage 
could stifle the truth— that we are united forever." 
What is it that gradually spreads over her frame? 
Has the grave, in gratitude, cast a spell of mystical 
warmth and dignity, that she stands, like a queen, 
robed in ermine ? ' ' Poor souls ! they do not under- 
stand. That I could ever hate them !" 

Over the hills, a woman goes, with patches of 
blue in a gown of red wool; with a faded shawl 
tied over her head— but in her rough hands, invis- 
ible lilies of Peace. 



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CHARITY. 

How much many often do that they care nothing 
for at all, just to be left in peace! how they snap 
and snarl to protect their gentleness! how they 
play parts to remain true! Hosts of uniformed 
soldiers are always battling with imps in their 
breasts; tragedies are sacredly guarded by men 
and women from morning till night; prisoners are 
rattling invisible chains with each harrowing stroke 
of the clock — and these never -resting efforts to 
escape or subdue form careers that are not rarely 
censured for being eccentric and aimless. Pessim- 
ism may be the weariness of struggling intellect; 
indifference, the exhaustion of care; indolence, the 
couch of broken energy; levity, the fever of 
wounded hope. Man agitates trouble to strength- 
en his weakness; he sometimes from loneliness, 
sins. Sages have turned themselves into fools, to 
gain experience; wisdom puts on the dunce-cap, 
at times, from dread of isolation. The prayers of 
not a few are their patience ; their resigning them- 
selves to live is their litany and psalms ; the church 
box contributions are their smiles in the midst of 
rain in their hearts ; their holy- communion is their 
forgiveness of wrongs natural to avenge. As far 
back as many a one can remember, he sees little 

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Jjl/^usings anb pastels 



serpents wiggling themselves forward upon the 
scenes of his life at most undesirable moments; 
they come hissing and thrusting forth their tongues, 
and turning bright expectancy into sickening chaos 
and dread ; the powers he would use for a prepared 
action must be wielded to conceal or endure. The 
light of eternity shows some of them to have been 
warriors who, on dark earth, were called drifting 
slaves. 

IMPRESSIONS. 

Our impressions are greater than our thoughts, 
for they are given to us by the seer-powers of our 
hearts. Impressions are received only by the sensi- 
tive; truth appears to them in a mystical flash. 

CREED. 

Be honest, be gentle, and kind; be true to your 
ideals; obey the Ten Commandments, and press 
the Sermon on the Mount to your heart. Wrong 
neither beast nor man; woo the air, sky, water, 
tree; dream of flowers, birds, and hills; let music 
inhabit your brain. You then need have nothing 
to fear; all demons flee from a bright mind. 

GENIUS. 

There are mysteries none but the dead can ex- 
plain; we know that they are, and that is enough. 

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)])f^U5iTlg5 QTlb J>Qstel5 



Some natures are lonely amidst kindred and 
friends; though fortune smiles on them, they feel 
cold and sad; and while they have voices, they 
rarely can speak, for few understand the tongue of 
their hearts. They seem to be sleeping, when wid- 
est awake; they are often called idle, while they 
invisibly toil ; they hearken to summons which they 
alone hear. These are the strange children of 
mystical light, who do things from what others 
call genius, but from what they themselves may 
call pain; perhaps from self-sacrifice — another 
world knows. 

POETS. 

There are poets that neither write nor rhyme, 
yet their natures sing, and they soar. We are all 
poets who live from our hearts, for what comes 
from the heart is a song. We are in chains only 
when we can not sing; we die only when we can 
not sing. Thus the atmosphere of sordidness chills 
each true poet's soul, for it brings the clank of 
fetters that mean death to melody. 

CYNICS. 

What is a dream but a far-away note of a bird 
in the forest of longing? the bird of remembrance, 
that chants of its home, the child-land of mystical 

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}])/^u5ing5 QTib pastels 



glory? We follow the strains which lead us across 
the mountains of pure aspiration, the peaks of 
which are Courage and Love, Art, Honor, and 
Hope, the highest. But they whose wings of en- 
thusiastic fancy are clipped by the scissors of scorn, 
whose ears are deadened by the clatter of the 
world, while they can no longer hear, or fly toward, 
the bird, they are haunted almost all the time by 
the consciousness of loss. So they move through 
life with a grievance against it. These are the 
cynics, the embittered destroyers of pedestals for 
the worship of height. These are the corpses of 
murdered poets, and their stench, which makes 
society sick, is Retribution. Poets are killed every 
hour of the day, and pessimism is the revel of their 
spectres. As soon as the songs of a heart are 
crushed, a poet dies, and earth is darkened by 
another shadow. 

PIETY. 

Harm not a weed, except to save a flower; let 
every thought be "God, I thank Thee for Thy 
Love." Let every wish be for the welfare of all 
people— the good to be protected, the evil to turn 
good ; wound not the feelings even of a cur. 



15 



)J)/^U5iTig5 QTib pQStels 



POET'S RHAPSODY. 

Just to hear the wild birds sing ! just to hear the 
waters speak! just to hear the winds reply to the 
whisperings of the leaves! just to hear the tem- 
pest's laugh ! just to see the cloud ships roll ! just to 
clasp a true friend's hand, is enough for me — for 
me! 

Just to see a child at play ! just to hear a melody ! 
just to quaff a cup of wine with congenial company ! 
just to hear a martial sound! just to hear an an- 
them's peal! just to woo a gentle maid — is enough 
for me — for me! 

COURAGE. 

Tell no tales on your companions; press the 
blame upon yourself ; dare to listen to your heart's 
call, though it leads across the seas. Memorize 
heroic actions; dream of generous chivalry; turn 
your dreams into realities for the helpless and the 
lame. Learn to love the voice of music in the 
forests, hills, and fields; with your arms about 
your loved ones, sing away ignoble fear. 

RAIN-DROPS AT THE WINDOW. 

How few there are that have truth to bestow! 
and if they have, they hide it miserly, lest it may 
shake their ease. 

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Art is, at times, the song of longing and atone- 
ment — a duet between aspiration and regret. 

We must seem credulous to learn — conceal our 
knowledge, to increase its store. 

All, all is nothing — nothing; all, all will pass 
away; all but sincerity, the heart of the ideal. 

Meditation is the bath of the brain ; but too 
much bathing weakens. 

Nothing escapes from bitterness to nourish its 
dark fire. 

Dreams keep warm, if only for a moment; the 
world is always freezing from the lack of sunshine 
sympathy; therefore so many of us dream. 

How like a dirge the tempest sounds to him 
whose hopes are dead forever! but to the one 
whose moods are dancing, it whirls in glorious 
ecstacy. 

None look so cold and dignified as they that 
fear detection. 

Angels come to us and leave us ; but devils stay 
forever. 

Exhaustion is a favorite repast of the fiends; 
discouragement makes it all the spicier for them. 

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The wind that presses against your cheek may 
carry the last sigh of a broken heart, which you, 
having suffered once in the same way, might have 
mended, had you only known. 

Gentle sadness is the light of thought; bitter- 
ness is the disappointment of the flesh. 

Those whom we like bring us peace; but those 
whom we love and those whom we hate give us 
trouble. 

Whoever has sinned and suffered, has drunk of 
the heart-wine of life. 

There is music in the rain-drops, and regret. 

What we condemn as idleness too often is de- 
spair, which needs, instead of our abuse, our sym- 
pathy and cheer. 

Christ is the sympathy of eternal justice; to be 
truly just, we must quiver with the tragedy of him 
we necessarily condemn. 

Go, seek nature, she is tuner of the soul. 

Suffering flesh becomes cruel; suffering soul, 
kind. 

How many, while under a little roof together, 
are worlds apart from one another! Should any 
of them attempt to speak their native language, 
they would not be understood by the others at all. 

18 



)J)/^u5ing5 QTib Pastels 



We must not force, but woo, our lost selves back 

to us ; we win them best with melodies, and dream- 
waves of repose. 

Interest in trifles has been fostered as a cure for 
morbid intensity; idle curiosity has been culti- 
vated as a refuge from the sick devils of boredom. 

How many, while in pauper's rags, are Caesars 
in a world of dreams! 

Let us reverently bow to one another — to haunts, 
though sometimes ruins, of ethereal sovereignty. 

What is insanity, the worst of ills? Hateful 
suspicion, jealousy and spite; dark broodings upon 
self, and morbid joy in seeing great hopes fall. 

Conceit sees even nature nothing compared to 
self, and all the world an audience watching its 
every act. 

Lack of appreciation is the banner of fools. 

Those who have suffered are rarely conceited; 
our sanitv blesses our sorrow. 



Longing is the soul at prayer. 



The man that commits a generous act and 
grets it a moment afterward, is meaner tha 
that never commits a generous act at all. 



d re-\ 
n he \ 



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)Di^usings QTib f)Q5tel5 



Thoughts that emanate from the mind only are 
always a little artificial; they must have their 
roots in the heart, to be strong. 

Self-conceit stifles the currents of yearning — the 
currents that waft us aloft. 

Before the laugh of little children, the thoughts 
of sages stalk like ghosts. 

Keep out of domestic broils; for they are more 
wearing than sickness. 

True philosophy must not agitate, but soothe; 
the world is already burning up with fever. 

Cold and uncanny is the word faultless; death 
alone is without error — death, perfectly still. 

Wine and the dancing girl's song have been 
sought to save burning brains from the fiends of 
depression; the cynical jest may be a spiked wall 
to protect tragic humor from invasion. 

Even though we write verses from morning till 
night, we still are not poets if they are not true; 
and nothing is true that comes not from the heart, 
for truth is the daughter of feeling. 

There are those whose lightest presence warms 
our natures; there are those whose far-off foot- 
steps chill our bones. 

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)]]^U5ing5 anb pastels 



Poetry must come from within, not from with- 
out; it is not born of circumstance. 

We first seek adventures, we later seek refuge; 
we cultivate unrest, then struggle for peace. 

The poet is sympathy incarnate; his soul must 
be often in tears. 

Let us remember that it is wicked to be unhappy, 
except from sympathy or remorse. 

Wherever there is hope, there is a little unrest; 
there is the wallowing peace of despair. 

The coachman freezes at his mistress' door, be- 
cause, though ready, she must appear to be slow. 

The hours of our careers which were greatest in 
anguish or in joy, were not noisy at all, but quiet. 

The rake is rarely the villain. 

The lounger is sometimes the thinker. 

Our real selves are our longings. 

What is sometimes called energy is fever. 

When we are at all self-conscious, we are a little 
artificial; and then our minds are fettered — only 
then. 

The ideal flees from question. 

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)JKJu5iTigs QTib jDastels 



Vines and genius must be trained, but in soft, 
sympathetic manner. 

Some talk and talk and try to please, and still 
their presence bores us; while others need not say 
a word, and yet be entertaining. 

There is no mockery in truth ; it warns, it threat- 
ens, wounds, and saves, but breathes forth spite to 
none. 

No evil can woo gentleness, for that is heaven's 
mission; good spirits deck its shining form with 
mystical protection. 

More failures have been caused by worry than 
by carelessness; for worry weakens strength. 

We must preserve our thoughts from bitterness; 
and they would stagnate in the pond of resignation, 
were it not filled with the clear waters of phil- 
osophy. 

Young men in love are troubled by strange fears 
— fears that have no foundation; as soon as one is 
overthrown, another worry follows. 

The mad dislike the mad. 

Some lives are always rough, with very few 
moments of calmness; but they at last grow used 
to stormy weather and fall asleep, listening to the 
waves of trouble. 

2S 



^D^usings QT\b ^Qstels 



Foolish wives are worse than foolish virgins; 
their mischief reaches farther. 

Our noblest thoughts are often those which float 
upon the dream-waves of repose. 



PEACE. 

Scene. — A hard and rocky road. 

An Old Man. (Falling upon his knees, surround- 
ed by ghosts of trouble) Is there no one to pity me, 
and soothe my bitter misery? 

Ghosts of Trouble (Mockingly) Ha, ha! none, 
none ! none, none ! 

Echo. None, none! 

Voices of the Air. The air does not say that; its 
words are all kind. 

Ghosts of Trouble. Away ! away ! for sympathy is 
here! 

{The Ghosts all vanish. In the midst of a brilliant 
light, a radiant figure appears.) 

The Radiant Figure. Pity is ever near for care; 
it does not always come because prayers oft are 
insincere. Name but your wish ; it will be granted 
you. 

The Old Man. (Imploringly) Peace, peace! O, 
give me peace! 

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)J]!|^ u 5 i n g s QTib J^Qstels 



The Radiant Figure. Even as you speak, your 
prayer is answered; behold, peace comes to you. 

(The figure sits musingly upon a stone; the bril- 
liant light fades into gray. Enter a gray-robed form, 
with face of stern serenity, holding white flowers in 
one hand, a little bell in the other.) 

The Old Man. (Shivering) Ah me, I never felt 
so cold! 

The Gray-robed Form. Yes ; peace is cold. Un- 
rest is always warm — unrest and trouble that have 
fled from you. Accept the chilly gifts of peace; 
their beauty does not agitate. 

{Pressing the white flowers against the old man's 
breast.) 

The Old Man. (In alarm) I never felt so weak — 
not even in my fears ! 

The Gray-robed Form. You need no strength to 
wear the gifts of peace, or to receive its sovereignty. 

{Raising the old man's hand to its lips.) 

The Old Man. (Wildly) I fall, and yet I seem to 
rise! What spell is this? Protect me from this 
form! 

The Gray-robed Form. Peace does feel strange to 
them that have known care; but it will soon be 
sweet, when you forget the past. 

{Ringing the little bell.) 

Voice of the Bell. Rest — rest ! rest — rest for care ! 

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}j)/^U5irig5 QTlb J^QStels 



The Old Man. (Sinking to the ground) Why do 
you mock me thus? You give me death instead 
of peace. 

{Looking reproachfully at the radiant figure on the 
stone.) 

The Radiant Figure. (Arising from the stone) Is 
there no gratitude in man? You asked for peace, 
and peace is death. 

Voice of the Bell. Peace is death! peace is 
death ! peace is death ! 

{The gray light turns into darkness; all disappear 
from the road hut the body of the old man.) 

THE YOUNG IMMORTAL. 

A Youth. (Picking up a bunch of violets that He 
scattered about on the road, and laying them down 
gently among their blooming kind) If a breath of 
life is yet in you, among your sympathizing sisters, 
die, and give them, O give them, a message of fare- 
well. But if already dead, under their sheltering 
leaves lie buried, "for all things with their own" 
my heart's voice always says. 

An Old Man. (Overhearing the words of the 
youth) He is a dreamer. Earth is far from him. 

A Group of Pitying Women. (Who see, but do 
not hear) Alas, alas! he soon must be confined! 

25 



)J]^u5ing5 QTib J^Qstels 



The Living Violets. (Quivering with rhapsodic 
agitation) The soul of the universe kissed us, and 
sang us a story of love ! 



THE TWO ARTISTS. 

Scene. — The Market Place of Art. 

Enter the Successful Artist. 

Successful Artist. I've donned this shabby coat 
to see if the old World would buy my work for its 
own worth alone. A strange caprice, indeed, but 
I am rather weary of selling all I paint on the 
strength of my name. Could I but feel it is my 
brush and not my clothes that brings me gold, my 
greatness would be sure. 

Enter the Unsuccessful Artist. 

Unsuccessful Artist. Had I a finer coat, I might 
attract the World; but this is all I have, which 
hides my shirtless breast. But here's another in 
a shabby coat; I've as much chance as he. 

Enter the World. 

The World. Your pictures are not very bad — 
but this man's colors are the richest. 

{Taking hold of the Unsuccessful Artist's picture.) 

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The Successful Artist. (Aside) I wish I had not 
worn the shabby coat ; caprices do not pay. 

The Unsuccessful Artist. (Aside) At last I feel a 
little hope, even in my shabby coat. 

Enter the Wind, mischievously . 

The Wind. Now just for a little fun ! see the old 
World change its mind quicker than a bird can fly, 
or a hope descend ! 

{Unloosening the coats.) 

The World. (Letting go of the Unsuccessful Ar- 
tist's picture) Why, the colors in that man's hand 
are the richest! How dare you trouble me with 
your daubs! you, with your naked breast! 

{Stalking away aggrieved with the Successful Ar- 
tist's picture.) 

The Successful Artist. (Throwing aside his coat) 
I'm glad I wore my fine shirt underneath; this 
might have been a very foolish trick; the wind 
brought back my senses. 

The Unsuccessful Artist. It was his shirt — it was 
his shirt that won the World; but it chose my 
work first. 

The Wind. How I have changed their faces by 
my trick ! 



27 



Ijll^usings QTib JDastels 



TO THE MEMORY OF OCTAVIA HENSEL. 

ALBRECHT. 

Characters. 

Conrad, Duke of Rhineland. 
Albrecht, his son. 
Heinrich, his aged cousin. 
The Mysterious One. 

Scene. — The rocky precincts of a castle along the 

Rhine. 

Enter Heinrich, meditatively. 

Heinrich. How will it end, this strange, unnat- 
ural separation of a parent from his child? Now 
eighteen gloomy years have passed away since the 
mad hour when it first began to reign, and still it 
does not lessen or decay. If I could only shake off 
the depression which sympathy and memories 
bring to me, and be indifferent as the swinish 
servants, who do not feel this air of tragedy ! But 
no one, I suppose, can change his nature — the 
sheep is a sheep, the pig is always piggish — and I 
am an old fool who sweats and shivers, simply 
because my friends are hot or cold. For I love 
both of them, hater and hated ; the one, still bleed- 
ing with the wounds of pride, of trust, and deep 

28 



)J)f^u5ing5 QTib Pastels 



affection ; the other, starving for heart food to keep 
his youth aHve. Yes, yes, I love the Duke, in 
spite of his injustice to his son, who dreams the 
livelong day. Why should the boy be cursed for 
the guilt of his mother? The scene of horror 
shakes my blood and bones again. The faithless- 
ness of wife and supposed friend discovered— the 
duel on the spot, and the foul betrayer punished; 
while she who is the cause of all the shuddering 
trouble, flees down the rocky path in wildest shame 
and terror, and stumbling at a crooked turn, gives 
her soul to the river. I do not think the Duke has 
ever spoken, since that unhappy time, six words iA 
all to his poor son, who suffers for his mother ; he 
can not bear to have him in his sight. How will 
it end— how will it end, for both so terribly es- 
tranged? I'd gladly sacrifice my life, if that could 
join their parted hearts. And here he comes, his 
head bent low — so young, so woeful, and alone! 
I'll move away, lest he suppose that my sharp 
eyes are watching him; for he has nothing but 
this joy — to sit upon these rocks and muse. 
(Walking slowly away.) 

Enter Albrecht. 
Alhrecht. Weird revery— spirits of the tender 
evening light, I welcome you ! You do not speak 
the sorrows of the day, but filled with radiant mus- 

29 



)J]|^U5iT1g5 (XT\b J^QStels 



ings, ^'^ou soothe away its pain. The restful agi- 
tation of the knowing winds tells of a living hope 
somewhere — somewhere — that all we pine for in 
our troubled hearts will one hour meet their due. 
(Seating himself on a rock.) To me the sun is far 
more generous as its last smile salutes approach- 
ing night, than when in the full glory of its sway — 
mocking sad loneliness. No solitude is colder than 
when the sun is brightest; there seems to be no 
pity then in nature for our mood. But now — but 
now our longings are not frozen; the air, the sky, 
and water all conjure off despair. What spell is 
there in evening's meditation? the sullen shades of 
morning disappear — the stinging recollections of 
the meeting with my father accidentally near the 
gate. Somehow, I do not feel the chilly distance 
of his regard, and nearness of his frown ; in vision 
I can almost see him smiling, instead of looking 
bitterly at me. 

(All the while that he is musing, a strange rattling 
noise can be heard, ascending the rocky path of the 
hill.) 

Re-enter Heinrich, unperceived by Albrecht. 

Heinrich. Yes, there he sits, looking both wise 
and foolish; dreaming of what? The saints can 
only know ! What rattling noise is that, like bones 
knocking together? The air smells mouldy — it is 

30 



]J|/|u5ing5 QTib Pastels 



turning cold. Cold — cold — and damp ; he does not 
seem, to feel it, but smiles and stares at a world of 
his own. I'd think he was possessed of mad or 
evil spirits, could I forget his many acts of tender- 
ness and sense. I saw him snatch a little bird 
away from a cat's cruelty, and pressing it against 
his breast, let it die there in peace. I saw him 
save that very cat, which had aroused his generous 
wrath, from dogs that were pursuing it with terror 
and with death. I heard him reprimand old Karl 
for speaking harshly to a hound, and lecture better 
than the priest on sharp and quarrelsome tongues. 
He is no fool, that's sure, and there's no evil in 
him, but from those looks, one could believe he's 
simple and uncanny. That noise — that noise ! It's 
coming up the hill; up — up — the path which she 
went down to wash her guilty nature. Why do I 
think of her so much just now? Why do I 
think of that calamity? I almost see her in the 
yellow gown she wore that awful day. What 
makes the light so greenish? Whence do these 
vapors flow? Reminding one of incense wafted 
about the dead. Those sounds — those sounds of 
rattling bones — O, Mother of Heaven, protect my 
soul! 

(Enter from up the rocky path, the skeleton form of 
a woman, struggling to hold together, with fieshless 

31 



)J)/)u5iTig5 QTib Pastels 



hand, her garments falling to pieces from decay. 
Heinrich stares, fascinated with wonder and horror, 
at the mysterious figure, as it slowly moves toward 
Albrecht.) 

Albrecht. That I could ever have thought harsh- 
ly of him, even for a moment, seems now very 
strange; that I could ever have denied him en- 
trance into my heart, I can not understand — O 
powers of evening, you both cool and warm with 
height that feels but pity for us all ! Pity for him, 
whose living is all gloom ; pity for her, whose quiet 
is the tomb — my father, with no love to give his 
child; my mother, with no life to nourish it. Pity 
for them that mourn from day to day; pity for 
them that laugh, for joy must pass away; pity for 
things both sad and gay, since all are frail and 
changeable. Pity for them that toil without hope 
of reward ; pity for them that rule, feared, fearing, 
and unloved; pity for servant, pity for lord; for 
the breast of each is filled with care. 

(The figure moves slowly toward him.) 

Heinrich. It moves toward him — he does not 
even see it. Those looks! Those looks! his face 
is shriveling up with age ! 

Albrecht. Pity for falsehood, struggling to stand; 
pity for truth, which stands alone; pity for aims, 
that can never be reached; pity for triumphs, with 

32 



Irt/Jusings QTtb JDastels 



its wreath of defeat. Pity for the weed, uprooted 
and scorned; pity for the flower, never left in 
peace; pity for the brute, that can not tell its 
woe; pity for man whose tongue leads him to woe. 
Pity for passion, that ends in a fall ; pity for hate 
with its worms of remorse; pity for thought, that 
can never find rest — pity for pity, that sees only 
tears. 

(The figure stands immediately at his side.) 

Heinrich. It stretches forth its arms toward him ! 
The air is cold as death ! O God, protect him ! 

Albrecht. The air is moist with weeping sympa- 
thy; the winds heave with the sighs of breaking 
hearts; the shadowy forms extend toward me 
their stores of sorrowful, hidden things. (The 
figure touches him,.) What misery are you? 
Whence do you come? And wherefore are you 
here? Whatever you may be, you have my pity, 
together with the evening's, for everything that is. 

The Mysterious One. So cold — so cold — so cold. 

Heinrich. It speaks — it speaks to him! his soul 
is lost forever. 

Albrecht. The little that I have can help you, 
then; come underneath my cloak. (The figure 
sits down beside him; he shares his cloak with it.) 
I've often picked up frozen birds, and warmed 
them back to life again, by pressing them against 
my breast; so you'll be warm soon, too. 

33 



)J)/^U5iTlg5 QTlb j^QStels 



(He draws the figure closely to his side.) 

Heinrich. And so this is the end of his mysteri- 
ous dreamings — he is in league with spirits and 
with hideous sorcery! My sympathy has been 
wasted upon an imp of Satan, the true child of the 
woman that darkened the Duke's life. The shad- 
ows of her influence haunted this spot all day ; old 
deviltry can trouble earth even beyond the grave. 
'Tis she — 'tis she — who is doing this — using her 
son for crime — luring him to unholy love for 
creatures dead and damned! There's nothing 
else that I can do, but add to the Duke's woe — 
admit his hate is justified — perdition is in the boy ! 

{Exit hurriedly.) 

Albrecht. "So cold — so cold — so cold!" — this is 
the cry of everything that lives; of saint and sin- 
ner, fool and sage; of prince and subject, master, 
slave ; of soldier, drinking for the battle ; of monk, 
at prayer in ghostly chapel ; of beggar, shivering in 
his tatters, of lady frozen by her gems. "So 
cold — so cold — so cold — " this is the moan of 
unrewarded effort; of song lost in the clatter 
of the world; of hope subdued by narrow 
reasoning. This is the sob of nature's priestly 
spirits, whose words of guidance none will ever 
understand, until it is too late — too late — to hear. 
This is the wail of purity, on earth scorned and 

34 



)j]i^using5 QTib Pastels 



forsaken; "so cold — so cold — so cold! O God, 
so cold — so cold!" 

The Mysterious One. But warmer — warmer now. 

Albrecht. Yes, warmer — warmer now; is it not 
always so? — whenever I would lay the chilled 
against my breast, not they alone, but I myself, 
and all the neighboring atmosphere, soon felt a 
soothing warmth ; as now — as now — as now ! The 
cloak must be too heavy — I almost burn; the air 
is bright again — the winds have changed their 
melancholy tone; the waves below are whispering 
like children in delight. The birds, too, have re- 
turned ; how strangely I have dreamed ! that even- 
ing's ever sad! that nature's ever sad! that every- 
thing is sad ! when everything is glad ! when every- 
thing is glad, and beautiful — as you — as you — as 
you! 

(He gazes radiantly into the face of the figure at his 
side, which has sunk confidently into his arms — the 
figure of a girl, rich in the glowing beauty of gentle- 
ness and life.) 

Re-enter Heinrich, with the Duke. 

Duke. Nay, do not hinder me ; I am determined 
to put an end to this accursed evil! Abomina- 
tion's tree is dead, but while its shoot still lives, it 
has not perished. You seem surprised that he has 

35 



)j]l/^USiT1g5 QTib J^QStels 



done this deed ; I am not so, for is he not her child? 
and thus prepared for vice and horrid mischief? 

Heinrich. His crime is awful, but think of his 
youth! (aside) I did not know that I could love 
him still, in spite of his depravity ! 

Duke. Which makes it all the blacker. Youth 
ought to be the cradle of bright and glorious dreams, 
not the dark nest of serpents. The faults of youth 
should be those we can love, not those we see with 
horror; the fault of wandering from gentle home 
to bloody war and death, for pride of country ; the 
fault of striking at the insulter's heart — of dying 
in defense of honest name; the fault of warm en- 
thusiasm, that leads to error and to natural sin^ — 
yes, better riot and wild revelry than sneaking 
dreams of damned perversity! 

Heinrich. But solitude can blight the purest 
youth, and plant unholy thinking. 

Duke. Speak not of solitude's depressing healthy 
youth! it spreads the wings of noble aspirations — 
provokes an itch for acts of lofty daring — spurs on 
impatience, that through haste may stumble into 
pardonable folly — but never lures to intercourse 
with hell! There's no excuse for him, but that he 
is a wanton's child, and born for vicious cunning ! 

Heinrich. At least, then, do not kill, but banish 
him! 

36 



)J]^U5iT1g5 QTib J^Qstels 



Duke. Banish an egg of Satan ? Have no regard 
for other lands and other people? Though it were 
cast among the weeds, why, it would hatch and 
ruin a weed's flower! Since I'm unconsciously to 
blame for having bred and nourished a young mon- 
ster — all I can do, is, to destroy it — atone for my 
unhappy error! 

{Advancing toward Albrecht.) 

Heinrich. That I have lived to see this day! O 
God have mercy on us all! Vile as he is, I must 
protect him from rage of honor and of justice ! 

{Following the Duke.) 

Duke. The light you cast to blind me is in vain — 
no spell of witchcraft can conceal you from my 
sight. I hold the shield of truth before my eyes — 
stronger than all the flame-glare of the fiends! 
You are the fitting offspring of dishonor, shameless 
polluters of a noble name ! still, even she that bore 
you is outshadowed in wickedness by your unholy 
deed! Lewd dallier with spirits of perdition, your 
arts are weak if they can not foresee that the re- 
morseful cause of your foul being will crush you 
and your infamy to death. Down the same path 
that hurled your wretched mother into the shades 
of judgment, meet your doom ! 

Heinrich. (Grasping the Duke's arms) If I must 
raise my arms against you, it is to save your sorrow 
from despair. 

37 



)j]i^U5iTig5 QTib ^Pastels 



Duke. My sorrow ends in justice; touch not its 
precious rage. 

{He is about to seize Albrecht, to hurl him down the 
path, when he is suddenly transfixed by the sight be- 
fore him — beautiful purity in the arms of happiness.) 

Albrecht. (Rapturously) See what I have, my 
father ! see what the evening gave to me ! 

Duke. (After a long silence, to Heinrich) You 
have believed the boy ; if he communes with spirits, 
they are not of hell, but heaven. 

Heinrich. I did — I did, my lord ! my eyes are old, 
and often they deceive me ! 

Duke. (Aside) Just so I looked when I was 
young and happy, when I believed that life was 
good and true ; before I felt the stings of disappoint- 
ment in human hearts, and saw my ideals fall! 
When all the world was gloriously illumined by 
light of faith in friendship and in love ; when heaven 
seemed to be earth, earth to be heaven, God and 
His Angels shining everywhere. I see my youth 
again in simple sweetness ; I wake as from a night- 
mare of the dead. Once more the two that blessed 
and stirred my living are with me in the way they 
used to be. No longer is my vision's sight tor- 
mented by agonizing mockery and change. My 
hand grasps his in strong trust and affection; I 
clasp her closely to my rapturous breast, and I can 

38 



)J)/^u5ing5 Qiib Pastels 



ask of fortune nothing, nothing, for it has given 
all it has to give ! What hideous imp of malice 
turned bright morning into night? A night of 
storms and chaos, of ghosts and tragedies? What 
mood of grim perversity transformed my blooming 
fate into a nest of scorpion thoughts and hatred 
for mankind ? A dream ! a dream ! surely a dream ! 
that I have warred with flesh and soul against my 
love! against my friend! and even against my 
child ! (Aloud) And you are happy ? happy ? 

Albrecht. I have forgotten, father, that I was 
not always so. 

Duke. There is no night to you without its moon 
and stars flashing forth light in shapes of flowers ! 
there is no day to you that does not glisten with 
soft, mysterious colors, reflecting divine gems ! 
Each cloud is a ship filled with seraphic blessings, 
and when they are dark it is to keep weak eyes of 
erring hearts below from being dazzled by their 
brilliancy! Is it not so? not so? 

Albrecht. Yes — yes! Light everywhere! Hope 
everywhere! Joy everywhere! With promise of 
more — of ceaseless more! 

Duke. You see no weed that is not in some man- 
ner blooming; no creeping thing of earth without 
its dignity! each insect is no other than the air's 
wild winged fancy, and it only means to frolic when 
it stings! 

39 



)J)/^u5iTig5 anb J^Qstels 



Albrecht. Yes, yes! Yes, yes! Yes, yes! There's 
nothing mean or ugly anywhere ! 

Duke. The leaves are whispering ! Waters speak ! 
The winds tell of their escapades ! Storms are not 
angry, only mad with glee at boundless liberty ! 

Albrecht. Yes — yes! Speech! Speech! All na- 
ture speaks ! There is no silence anywhere ! 

Duke. Invisible hands stretch forth to you 
strength and assistance to climb over peaks! to 
glide through deep waters, and pierce through dark 
woods, and to raise up your sword against giants ! 

Albrecht. Yes, yes! Yes, yes! There's nothing 
to fear ! There's nothing — no, nothing to fear ! 

Heinrich. (Aside) I'm very glad — I am very 
glad — that passion has not won its end ; but surely, 
I have not been mad, and seen, instead of angel, 
fiend! I thought too kindly of the boy to have a 
vision of him damned; we dream of what we wish 
to come, so had I dreamed, I'd have seen this. 
Whatever she is, her powers are gentle, since she 
has softened the Duke's wrath; I have no fear to 
ask her questions, feeling she will not take them 
amiss. {To the Mysterious One.) I have never 
been so happy and so grateful as I am at this 
moment, glorious maid ! To see my friends, father 
and son, conversing in amicable tones, brings life 
to me! No matter whence you come, your mis- 

40 



)|]/^u5ing5 Qnb Pastels 



sion's holy, since you have transformed sorrow 
into joy ; but I can not refrain from being doubtful 
of my old eyes, that never lied before. I can not — 
no, I can not understand it — that I should have 
beheld, instead of you — dispenser of the benefits 
of heaven — a moment since just where you sit — a 
fiend ! 

The Mysterious One. Your eyes are honest as 
your heart, old man, which knows not how to lie. 
All that they saw, was true. All that they see, is 
true. 

Heinrich. You are his saving spirit, then? You 
come to rescue him, while I was hastening to the 
Duke, in terror and in grief? 

The Mysterious One. Question nothing but mis- 
ery, for question destroys. I am here. All is 
well — at last — well. 

Heinrich. (Aside) All is well, at last — well ! My 
hopes have come true — my troubles are over, and 
I'm still a fool ! Instead of embracing the bliss of 
my soul, I waste time in questioning how it arrived ! 
{To the Duke and his son, rapt in ecstatic conver- 
sation.) There is no star in all the universe so glori- 
ous as Love; I thank my guardian angel that she 
gave me the privilege to see it shine amidst these 
castle walls once more before I die. And may it 
never cease to shine, will be my prayer each day. 

41 



)])!/?U5iTlg5 Qnb J)Q5tel5 



Duke. It will not cease to shine. I tell you, 
Heinrich, there is a new-born life in me, I never 
hoped to feel ! O God of tender mercy, forgive my 
sin, I pray, of doubting in your goodness to send 
me light again! 

The Mysterious One. Love is light — love is light 
— love is light. 

Albrecht. Love is height — love is height — love 
is height! Where pasts are forgotten, for they 
are too small to be seen through joy's sky; where 
spirits of peace and forgiveness are fluttering, and 
nothing but music of hope can be heard. 

Duke. Forgiveness! forgiveness! Heinrich, yes, 
forgiveness ! The boy speaks my feelings — I have 
no more wrongs! I see nothing else now but a 
world of bright vision, with beauty and sweetness — 
dark memories have gone ! 

The Mysterious One. Forgiveness — forgiveness 
from your soul's depths — forgiveness? 

Albrecht. Forgiveness — forgiveness — on Heaven's 
breast — forgiveness ! 

Duke. Look — look — Heinrich — That radiance of 
his face reflects my own heart's happiness. Come, 
let us hasten toward the castle, where we will give 
him welcome with his bride. {Grasping Heinrich's 
arm, and hastening with him toward the castle.) 
But see — but see — she seems to be ascending ! No 

. 42 



)J]!|^U5ingS QTlb J)Q5tel5 



— no — she must not leave him — she is his soul — 
his soul — 'Tis well — he rises with her, their hands 
are clasped together — Perhaps your eyes are 
stronger? I can not see them now, my sight is 
somewhat blighted by the glory of their joy — are 
they coming — Heinrich — tell me are they coming? 

Heinrich. They are covered by a cloud — a heavy 
crimson cloud — it rolls away from them — I see the 
stone again — but he sits there alone! 

Duke. No, not alone — no, not alone! she must 
come back to him — she must come back to us — 
she has brought us light — she must not ever leave 
us ! {Springing to Albrecht's side, and seizing his 
hands.) She will return again, to never, never leave 
us ! Heinrich ! Heinrich ! quick — quick ! It all has 
been a dream ! Dead ! dead ! my son ! my son ! 



43 



)J]|^u5ings QTib J)Q5tel5 



TRISTRAM. 

Characters. 

Tristram, A solitary mortal. 
Spirits of the Wood. 
Daughter of the Rain- witch. 
An Owl. 

Voices. 

Voice of the Sea. 

Voice of the Rain- witch. 

Voices of the Winds. 

Scene 1. — Evening in the Woods. 
Enter six Spirits of the Wood. 

Spirits of the Wood. Hallo ! Hallo ! the Rain-witch 
is calling! the dream-light is fading, and shadows 
are near ! Eu-yu-eu ! eu-yu-eu ! the revels are com- 
ing between the night-clouds and the ghosts of the 
day! 

Voice of the Rain-witch. Ou-oo! ou-oo! away 
from my party, you graces of pity for what is no 
more! 

Spirits of the Wood. We sigh for the day with its 
blessings unfinished; the weirdness of night has 
its charms that betray. 

44 



)J)/iu5ing5 Qnb J^Qstels 



An Owl. But see, what thought-distracted face 
casts flickering shapes of hope and wild despair? 
it makes me bhnk — bUnk — bUnk. 

Voices of the Winds. A soul — a soul — a self- 
tormented soul! It can not understand us, so we 
can not give it aid. 

Spirits of the Wood. Then neither can we — can 
we — can we! The tongues of the winds and the 
wood are the same, they tell of mysterious rest. 

Voice of the Rain-witch. What the sun can not 
do, the rain may accomplish; rain and the night 
sympathize with dark moods. 

Spirits of the Wood. Aye — aye — aye — they lead 
to destruction. 

Owl. We will see — we will see — we will see! 

Enter Tristram. 

Tristram. Will you not speak to me? The stars 
are hidden — the stars that always mock me when 
I call for sympathy. Will you not speak to me, 
you gray-green figures? Your lips show interest, 
but no reply. 

Spirits of the Wood. He can not even hear our 
quiverings of pity! Rain-witch, make good your 
boasting! Help this unhappy soul! 

Voice of the Rain-witch. As soon as my goblins 
begin their mad gallop, you will see what the Rain- 
witch can do. 

45 



ID/Jusings QTib J^QStels 



Oivl. I see a light of hope — of hope. — of hope — 
of hope ! So good-bye, good-bye, good-bye ! 

Voices of the Winds. The hope that an owl sees 
is dark. 

Spirits of the Wood. Still, light enough to dazzle 
his eyes; plague of peace, we are glad you are gone. 

Enter the Daughter of the Rain-witch with 
troops of wild goblins and elves. 

The Daughter of the Rain-witch. Just to hear him 
speak once more, though he utters only pain ; then 
I end his woe forever, and my dreams of happiness ! 
Ah, my dream that somewhere, somewhere in the 
wide expanse of longing, we could mingle sighs 
together, and find peace in sympathy! But he 
does not understand me, and my love is unrequited ; 
I must take him to his heart's mate — to the sea — 
the sea — the sea ! 

Voices of the Winds. How we pity her complain- 
ing ! Still, her sorrow is his refuge, for her streams 
of hopeless yearning undulate with her sad arts. 

Spirits of the Wood. See, she takes her last fare- 
well of the soul she'll save and lose. 

Voice of the Rain-witch. My daughter, and gob- 
lins, and powers are here; wait and see who can 
satisfy need. 

Daughter of the Rain-witch. All pity me but her; 
all know my heart but her; all understand my 



)J)i?u5iTig5 anb J^Qstels 



sacrifice but her, my Rain-witch mother! And 
now he speaks again ! 

Tristram. How long have I been waiting to hear 
a word I know ! How long have I been searching 
for a language like my own ! 

Daughter of the Rain-witch. With all my love's 
fidelity, my tongue's too weak for him; no voice 
is wild and deep enough to match his but the sea's ! 

Tristram. O, for once to understand! O, to be 
once understood ! This has been my cry forever, 
still that cry hears no response. 

Daughter of the Rain-witch. It has been heard 
and answered by the depths of my despair ! 

Tristram. The moon mocks me almost as much 
as the stars; I hope she will never return. The 
clouds of the day and the night pass me by, without 
even a glance at my woe. 

Spirits of the Wood. All give you their pity;, they 
can give you no more. 

Voices of the Winds. All but one— all but one— 
who gives more. Speak not of your pity; it is a 
mere shade compared to the greatness of wounded 
love's aid. 

Tristram. And you do not reply to me — nor 
you— nor you— nor you; though in the midst of 
crowds, I am alone — alone! 

Daughter of the Rain-witch. No, not alone— no, 
not alone ! In pain there is no one alone. 

47 



Jjll^USiTlgS QTlb p(X5\e\5 



Voices of the Winds. Disappointment, disap- 
pointment ! all that hope know disappointment ! 

Voice of the Rain-witch. Say, why do you loiter, 
my daughter? The bells in the raindrops are read)^ 
to ring. 

Daughter of the Rain-witch. Yea, they ring — ring 
the birth of his rest — and they ring — ring the knell 
of my dreams. I come, mother! Yes, I am com- 
ing, with triumphant chorus and dirge. 
Exit Daughter of the Rain-witch, with her 
company of goblins and elves. 

{The evening turns into night. The spirits of 
the wood increase in number. Dark shapes glide 
to and fro. The owl comes shrieking back.) 

Owl. I thought I heard despair and so I returned, 
but I see hope still is here, and so, good-bye, again. 
Exit Owl. 

Voices of the Winds. A spark of hope always 
glimmers near self-sacrificing love. 

Spirits of the Wood. Hope in death — hope in 
death ! death — death — death ! 

Voices of the Winds. Death is hope — death is 
hope — death is hope. 

Tristram. Could I but hear what they are say- 
ing ! Their voices seem so far away ; even while I 
know that they are near me, they sound as if from 
other spheres. And one is gone whose looks were 

48 



)]|/^using5 QTib J^QStels 



tender, as though they had a word for me ; illusion ! 
O, a mad illusion ! They were not even meant for 
me. 

Voices of the Winds. The same old story over 
and over, that we have often seen and heard; the 
words that love is pining for come after it is gone. 

Spirits of the Wood. Return, despairing Rain- 
witch daughter, receive the balm for your sad 
plight; the bitterness of disappointment will be 
transformed into sweet hope. 

Voices of the Winds. Your cries are vain; she 
can not hear you, the winds foresee the ways of 
fate — the force of love's unselfish sorrow must 
rescue this unhappy soul. 

Spirits of the Wood. Too late, indeed, her work's 
beginning; the rain-drop bells begin to ring; and 
when they ring, we know our voices are lost in their 
rhapsodic dirge. 

Voices of the Winds. He speaks again; his pain 
increases now to its height, then swells no more. 

Spirits of the Wood. The winds at times seem to 
be callous, because they see the end of woe. 

Tristram. I fled from mortals, for they deceived 
me; their eyes were filled with mockery; they 
seemed to say they understood me, yet when I 
spoke, they turned away. I hastened then to hills 
and forests, but while their looks were always kind, 

49 



)]]i^u5ing5 QTib J^Qstels 



they never would return my greeting or speak the 
language of my sighs. I stretched my arms in vain 
toward them ; I fell exhausted from my cries. My 
longing's breath has all been wasted upon the un- 
sympathizing air. 

Spirits of the Wood. O cruel fate ! He does not 
know that sympathy is watching him ! 

Voices of the Winds. For if he did, his pain would 
lessen, and he would never reach his goal. 

Tristram. How many forms, of strange appear- 
ance, arise before and flee from me, yet none of 
them I can remember, but one that has just dis- 
appeared; and that one now returns. 

{Re-enter the Daughter of the Rain-witch with 
her elves ringing the rain-drop hells, and her goblins 
galloping behind.) 

Spirits of the Wood. For once you were mistaken, 
Winds ; our cries were not in vain. 

Voices of the Winds. She makes her sacrifice 
complete; she builds her own dream's tomb. 

(The Daughter of the Rain-witch passes on 
without looking at Tristram.) 

Tristram. O, no — she does not even see me! 
Again deceived — deceived — deceived ! 

{The Daughter of the Rain-witch hears Tris- 
tram's cry, and stands still.) 



50 



)]]i^U5iTlg5 QTib pQStels 



Spirits of the Wood. Hear — hear! He calls you, 
Rain-witch daughter! He yearns for your deep 
sympathy. 

Daughter of Rain-witch. (To her goblins and 
elves) Cease — cease your din ; I may not need you. 
(The elves cease ringing the rain-drop bells; the 
goblins stop galloping behind, and all of her weird 
attendants sit wonderingly upon the ground. She 
eagerly looks at Tristram, and the new-born hope in 
her breast illumines her form with a rainbow.) 
You understand me? yes — you understand me? 
My voice is not too weak for you? 

Tristram. (Turning away his eyes) Her very 
form has changed its aspect ! She mocks me as the 
others do! Her voice seems farther away than 
ever ! There is no hope at all for me ! 

Daughter of the Rain-witch. (The rainbow van- 
ishes from her) It is not my love that he knows ! 
It is my despair that he calls, to show him the way 
to the breast that will soothe him forever from 
woe and from me ! 

Voice of the Rain-witch. O, what is the matter, 
my daughter? The bells and the gallop have 
ceased. 

Daughter of the Rain-witch. A crack in the bell 
and a stumble; but all has been mended again. 
{To the goblins and elves.) Whry do you sit and 

51 



in/^usings QTib J^Qstels 



stare, like frogs suspecting evil? Up to your work 
of rescue, with gallop and with bell! {She looks 
despairingly at Tristram ; the elves ring the rain-drop 
hells again and the goblins gallop about her.) Un- 
rest ! Unrest ! Rain- drops of unrest ! Unrest ! 
Unrest! Unrest! {She moves slowly backwards, 
in the midst of a tum,ultuous gallop and ringing of 
bells; then gradually turns about, until completely 
hidden from Tristram's view by a heavy veil of rain.) 
Unrest ! Unrest ! Rain- drops of unrest ! Unrest ! 
Unrest ! Unrest ! 

Spirits of the Wood. Hope and despair have 
made her stronger; we never heard such tones 
before. 

Voices of the Winds. She strikes the splash mood 
of the ocean, to lead him to his kindred soul. 

Tristram. O, no — no — you have not deceived 
me! I follow you where'er you go! I thought at 
once your face was kindly; I realize my hopes are 
true. Mock all you will — moon, stars, hill, forest ! 
My triumph hour at last is here. My woes are all 
forgotten in these welcome words I hear. Come — 
come! 

{Exit, following the voice of the Daughter of 
THE Rain-witch.) 

Spirits of the Wood. Where will she lead him, 
winds? Where will she lead him? Go, follow 
them, and tell us where she leads him. 

52 



)J]!|^u5iTig5 QTib pastels 



Voices of the Winds. We know already where 
she'll lead him ; but we'll return, and tell you their 
whole stor3^ 

Voice of the Rain-witch. Did I not say my powers 
were stronger than those of day and sunny 
weather? 

Spirits of the Wood. We remember the words of 
the owl. We will see— we will see— we will see ! 

Scene 2. — A Shore of the Sea. 

Enter Daughter of the Rain-witch, with her 
troops of goblins and elves. 

Daughter of the Rain-witch. Here is where his 
sorrow ends, and here's my sweet dream's grave. 
{To the goblins and elves.) I do not need you any 
longer; you are at liberty— begone ! {The goblins 
and elves flee from her.) I yearned for Hfe, and 
death received my homage — death, clad in the 
gray garb of duty. I longed for a flame of human 
fire, but icy truth froze my desires. O, the cold 
solitude of spirit— freedom ! The loneliness of 
mortals is at least warm. 

Tristram. (In the distance) At last I have 

found you! Yes, at last I have found you! 

How we will speak, and open our hearts together ! 

Daughter of the Rain-witch. He must not see me, 

no— he must not see me! His gratitude would 

53 



)j]|Ju5ings QTib Pastels 



sting my wounds, yet not to hear it would sting 
even more. {To the sea.) I bring you, sea, one that 
belongs to you — the very notes that led him here 
were borrowed from your mood. He has been 
groping through dark misery to find you; yours 
is the only voice that he can understand. Give 
him the rest for which his soul is burning, give him 
the words of hope he pants to hear ! 

Voice of the Sea. The rest of ocean lies in unrest. 
It is most passionate when calm. It's words of 
hope are "Roll forever! There is no end to rest- 
lessness." 

Daughter of the Rain-witch. Roll — roll with him 
to rest and hope forever, away from shadowy 
memories and wrecked dreams. 

{Exit Daughter of the Rain- witch.) 

Enter Tristram, eagerly. 

Tristram. I love you ! I love you ! I love you ! 
We will never part, will we, my friend, my brother? 
How gloriously we have come together, after my 
agonizing search for you! {Leaping on the bosom 
of the sea.) O, the bliss in understanding! O, the 
bliss in being understood ! 

Voice of the Sea. O, the bliss in rolling, rolling 
the songs of unrest — Hope and Peace ! 

Voices of the Winds. Yes, rolling hope and rolling 
peace for him ; self-sacrifice must sufifer and be still. 

54 



)J]/^u5ing5 Qnb pQStels 



(Enter the Owl.) 
You may return now to your woods ; the hope that 
worried you has gone. 

Owl. The winds are wise, but owls are even 
wiser. Do you not see those Hghts amidst the 
trees ? 

Voices of the Winds. Along the path that the sad 
Rain-witch daughter took after she completed her 
great task? True — true, on every bough that 
touched her as she passed, there is a little spark. 

Owl. But they grow brighter all the time. I 
leave those woods forever. (Exit.) 



it s/. 



)j]!|^u5iTig5 anb j^Qstels 



ELISE. 

Along the shore of Mackinac Isle, where each 
dashing wave tells wild tales, there stood, in 
days of long ago, a poor hut, marked by fate 
and time. A woman was its occupant, marked, 
too, by fate and time: France gave her birth; 
America gave her nothing at all but woe. 
Morn and evening saw this woman — Suzanne 
Galvois — washing, washing; yet while washing, 
she was dreaming of both bright and troubled 
pasts. As she washed, strong visions arose 
within her, turning her wrinkles into minia- 
ture canyons, and drawing her lips even closer 
together than are the bosoms of hate and revenge. 
A sweet French village home and humble peace 
destroyed; love quickly changed to bitterness, 
with ghosts of vanished joy. Brother Jean, star 
of the family, seduced by the glitter of aristocracy, 
fleeing with a titled butterfly, far from warmth and 
sympathy. Father dying, cursing Jean; mother 
following, not long after, to the grave's rest, crying 
"Jean! Jean!" O, the lonely misery! Next, the 
letter telling of Jean, in a land of disappointment ; 
telling of the little Elise, come to earth amidst 
sharp want. Suzanne then, in wild America, 
marching East to West, North to South, all pov- 

56 



)J]/^u5iTig5 QTib pasUls 



erty's stings for company, with three, until with 
but one. Here she rested with Jean's EHse. 
EHse had passed seventeen winters. Never should 
she wed aristocracy, cause of Jean's folly, Jean's 
woe! Pierre, of the fishing trade, knew well how 
to toil; honest, brave, a strong protector; he 
yearned for EHse with breast aflame ; soon should 
the two young hearts be one ! 

Ah, but Elise all the time was dreaming of her 
mother's briUiant people; an idle tongue had fired 
her reveries; humbleness she could not love. No, 
she never could wed Pierre! his soul could not 
speak with her soul! Thus she mused, and fled 
from the washing — always the more beautiful. 

It was one evening, gray with warning. Elise 
sought the lonely heights of the island. She was 
near to nature's triumph, Arch Rock, when there 
called a voice "Elise Galvois, leave these base 
weeds ! come, live with your mother's people ! come, 
and join the flowers of your kind, in the land which 
is your home!" 

Before Elise, stood her mother's sister; long was 
she seeking Elise' s EHse; vain were her searches 
until now, when she came to Mackinac. Elise stood 
trembling before the lady, pride of aristocracy; 
murmuring faintly, "Wait but tiH morn !" she fled, 
burning with hope and fear. As she threw herself 



57 



)j]/^U5iTig5 QTib Pastels 



on a log, a deep voice, too well known to her, 
sounded: "Elise Galvois, I have heard all; O ne'er 
can I be far from you! Elise! Elise! you must 
be mine ; my heart lives but to pant for you ; while 
life is ours, ne'er can we part ; dead, it still must be 
the same!" 

On her knees before Pierre, Elise fell, stretching 
her arms toward him : ' ' Pierre ! Pierre ! if you 
truly love me, you can not wish me to die!" 

But he drew her up toward him; spoke — each 
word a funeral knell: "While life is ours, ne'er 
can we part; dead, it still must be the same!" 
Then strength of caged aspiration came to Elise; 
she unloosened the grasp of her captor — darted 
swiftly to the center of Arch Rock's bridge, o'er 
the fearful chasm. "Ha-ha! Pierre! so this is 
your love! Better to die than to live with your 
kind!" A cry — it was ambition's death wail — to 
pierce the heavens, and a fall. 

The moon smiled heartlessly on Arch Rock's 
chasm ; cruel moon ! she knows not pity ! She saw 
two figures on the bridge gazing rigidly below. 
"Elise!" cried a man's voice wildly. "Elise!" 
cried a woman's, strangely. The moon smiled 
more heartlessly than ever, as the woman moved 
away. "Pierre," she said, "we can not be too 
grateful- to death that saved her from the fate of 
Jean!" 

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)J]!/^U5ing5 QTib pQstels 



SEA-FOAM. 

Condemn not the dead, condemn not the living; 
have pity for all, both the good and the evil. 
Oppress not the weed, the wasp, or the serpent; 
judge not, lest your harshness rebound and fall on 
you. 

We are all boys and dreamers still, though we 
are fathers and gray-beards; it is only when we 
can not dream, that we are old and broken. 

It is youth alone that lives and is beloved; age 
dies long before it enters the grave. We are young 
as long as we Uve the truth of our hearts; we are 
old when we stifle our heart's voices. 

We are idlest when we worry; we are maddest 
when we pretend; we are meanest when we are 
untrue to our friends; we are most arrogant when 
we judge. 

No matter if you are bright or sad, no matter if 
you are good or bad, no matter if you are sane or 
mad, there are thousands of others like you. 

Keep us strong in our adversity ! Keep us sane 
in our success! Keep us kind amidst our pleas- 
ures ! In our misery, keep us just ! 

As long as nature has a word to say, there will 
be love and romance. 

59 



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015 898 173 7 ^ 




^m. 



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